


Eye of the Beholder

by persnickett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bodyswap, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam take advantage of the opportunity to abuse each other's bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Beholder

Sam hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he knew something was wrong. The snuffling, ragged breathing in the next bed wasn’t the usual slow in-and-out of Dean sleeping off the beer plus one whiskey shot of the previous night’s eight-ball hustle.

 

‘Great, now it’s nightmares for two?’ thought Sam. He sighed wearily and opened his eyes to check that Dean wasn’t aspirating on his own vomit or anything – as happy as something so John Bonham-esque might have made Dean.

 

Sam looked, and the thing in the bed next to his was not his brother. Sure, it looked human, and masculine in a way that was almost over-doing it; the stiff white sheets slipped low enough to show a bare torso that was all planes and knots of hard-earned muscle. But if it was trying to be Dean it had made several, glaring, mistakes. It was huge, for one thing, sprawled on its back with one over-large hand dangling awkwardly off the bed and its head turned away from Sam. And it had shaggy, too-long hair that was several shades darker than Dean’s sandy spikes.

 

Unusual as it was for him, Sam found he’d been sleeping on his belly. One hand was tucked under the pillow and curled loosely around the handle of something deadly. Sam wondered abruptly when Dean had started this mutant toothfairy act, but for once, he was thankful for Dean’s overprotective paranoia. Clutching the Bowie knife, Sam eased himself off the mattress as silently as he could, but the creaky motel bedsprings didn’t cooperate. The imposter heard him.

 

Sam saw its head turn toward him by a fraction. Then the thing leapt out of the bed – and promptly crumpled to the floor, like it wasn’t used to its legs yet. But whatever-it-was had lightning recovery, and it scrambled across the room to grab Dean’s Colt off the table and point it right at Sam’s chest. A killing shot. This thing knew how to handle a gun.

 

Sam looked up to meet his attacker’s gaze and nearly dropped the knife. It was staring back at him with eyes he’d only ever seen in a mirror; and that wasn’t all. The thing was _him_ in every detail; from the gash on his left forearm courtesy of last week’s critter job, right down to the little mole next to his nose. Sam watched as it opened _his_ mouth and said:

“What the hell are you? And where’s my brother!?”

And Sam thought it must be able to read his thoughts, too. Then it cocked the hammer – and one eyebrow – in an unequivocal threat and said, “Talk, you creepy shape-shifting son of a bitch, before I forget my manners.”

 

Sam’s sleep-addled mind was slowly making some sort of dread-reluctant sense of this. Dean’s bed was always the one closest to the door. Always. Sam could never be sure if it was out of the aforementioned over-protectiveness, or just a habit born from years of being crawled over at 3 am by a little brother who needed the washroom. Regardless, Sam had definitely woken up on the wrong side of the room. He looked down at Dean’s knife in his hand, and that was all wrong too, but not unfamiliar. He knew it all; the square fist and thick fingers that were so like his fathers’, the forearm lightly downed with curling, golden hairs that did nothing to cover the sparse dusting of – yep – freckles. Sam didn’t need to turn his hand over to know there was a silver ring there, he could feel it digging into his flesh as he ferociously gripped the knife handle in panic. Shit.

 

Sam dropped the knife –  a white flag – and said in Dean’s voice,

“Dean. It’s me. Well, I mean, I’m you. _Trans corporis_.” This was so just their luck, and Sam couldn’t help it, he laughed. Great, first his body, now he was losing his mind, too? As if in confirmation of the thought, his brain wildly considered quoting ‘Don’t you know your Sam?’ and he had to bite down on his laughter as it threatened to bubble up again. God, he really was a geek.

 

 “Just – look at yourself, Dean.”

 

“Oh, I’m looking. But as handsome as you are, I’m getting ready to finish up looking and shoot ‘myself’ right between the eyes, if I don’t start hearing what you did with my brother in about the next two seconds.”

 

Dean wasn’t getting it. Of course, why should Dean believe him? Anything that was capable of looking like Dean was capable of lying about it. He probably still hadn’t gotten over seeing his face on that thing in St. Louis.

 

“Dean. Last week, we killed a gremlin, and you said it looked exactly like in the movies and you wanted to get it stuffed at a taxidermist’s. Remember?” Dean stared. The Colt’s muzzle didn’t budge.

 

Sam looked at the .45 pointed at him in his own hands, and just started _talking_.

“When we were little you sang me the _Transformers_ theme when I couldn’t sleep, because it was the only song you knew all the words to. You love chili fries and cheese fries, but you hate chili-cheese fries because it all slides off, and then you have use a fork. You watch Oprah. You used to wet the bed, and Dad had to…”

 

“Ok, ok. Shut up, Sammy. SHUT UP!” Dean bellowed, and Sam trailed off, oddly intimidated. Was his voice always that deep? Dean was standing there on the wrong side of the room looking down at himself; at Sam’s long gangly legs in flannel pyjama pants, the gun falling slack in his large hand. “Shit, Sam, all you had to say was ‘Freaky Friday’.”

 

**

 

Dean had a plan. They were going to: 1) stay calm, and 2) figure this thing out. Good plan.

Sam followed orders and sat down in one of the rickety motel chairs anyway, because he understood that the first part of the plan was Dean’s job, and the second part was his. And the only way Dean could get his half done was if Sam fell in line. _Order in the face of chaos_ , or some other bullshit Dad had told them that basically meant “do as I say, not as I do.” Mostly though, they both just wanted the excuse to sit across from each other and stare. Because, it was _weird_.

 

Watching someone else’s expressions on your own face was almost as unnerving as hearing yourself speak in someone else’s voice. Sam had noticed the hyperactivity of Dean’s eyebrows before, but until he saw them performing those acrobatics, he’d never quite noticed his own brows. They had a prominence that would impress a cro-magnon, and Sam made a mental note. When this was over, he was giving up the ongoing battle with his hair and letting it fall forward over his forehead the way Jess used to cut it, even if it did get in his eyes.

 

But Dean was talking.  Well, babbling, but they were in crap-load of trouble and Sam should try and pay attention to Dean’s “plan”.

 

“…And we’ll have to do some practice training,” Dean was saying, “If I’m gonna be stuck using all your giant, clunky-ass equipment.”

Dean abruptly jumped out of his chair, dashed into the bathroom and slam-locked the door. Nice.

 

On the word “equipment” Sam had caught a look he didn’t think he’d ever seen on Dean’s face. _Twitch_ was the best word Sam could think of to describe it, and he had the distinct impression it was something his face did whether the person wearing it wanted it to or not. Jerk face. Sam pouted, felt Dean’s lips curve exponentially in relation to the effort he’d put into it, and stopped immediately.

 

As if on cue, Sam’s (Dean’s?) bladder reminded him he’d been awake for almost an hour now and Dean had spent the night swilling beer like they didn’t make the stuff where he was headed in the morning. No problem. Sam had lock picks. Besides, he told himself, Dean didn’t have anything behind that door that Sam hadn’t seen before.

 

The mirror was a whole new frontier of messed up. Sam looked at his brother’s face, and watched himself move his brother’s hands. Freaky. He traced Dean’s callused fingers over the bridge of his nose, testing if he could _feel_ the freckles. He prodded his cheekbones, scratched at the stubble on his jawline, and opened his mouth and checked out the straight little rows of Dean’s white, even teeth.

 

“Dude. You used my toothbrush _again_.”

“Damn right,” Sam heard his own voice say, from behind the pink flamingo patterned shower curtain. “So don’t you go putting it in _my_ mouth now.”

Oh yeah.

“This is so confusing,” Sam muttered, tearing his gaze off the mirror and getting down to business.

“This is awesome,” Dean countered. “You’re huge, man.”

Sam could feel Dean’s pale skin flushing clear up to the hairline. “I mean, I knew you were huge and everything but…you’re _huge_!”

Oh, God.

“Dean!” And even in Dean’s voice, Sam managed to make it sound about 4 years old. Dammit. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?”

“Quit…looking.”

“Right, and what are _you_ doing, aiming with your eyes closed?”

“Just – shut up, alright? I can’t do this with you talking to me.”

“Aw, you don’t have to be shy, Sammy. I changed your diapers.” Sam had never wanted to punch his brother in the face more. Great timing, considering now it was _his_ face.  “I don’t remember this big, fugly mole though, have you gotten it looked at?” Correction: NOW he had never wanted to punch his brother in the face more.

 

Instead, Sam finished up and flushed without giving warning. Smirking, he shut the door on the spluttering and cursing of Dean struggling to get all six feet, four inches of himself out of the now-scalding spray.

 

**

 

“Dean?” Even scratching its way through the crappy cell phone reception, the concern in Bobby’s greeting couldn’t be clearer. The familiar sound made Sam want to cling to it like someone had tossed him a life preserver.

 

“It’s Sam,” he explained, hastily. “I just have Dean’s voice. Well I kind of have Dean’s…everything. We’re switched, Bobby. I don’t know how it happened, there’s nothing about it in Dad’s journal and researching the internet for body-swapping is turning up so much garbage and fan fiction I can’t sort through it all.”

“There are plenty of things it could be,” Bobby replied, when Sam finally stopped babbling like a kid. “But the most dangerous is a Phlebotinum curse.”

“Phlebotinum?” Sam repeated, scratching absently at his nape. The close-cropped hairs felt prickly.  “I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but it’s not ringing any bells.”

“It’s a spell,” Bobby sighed. “Sort of a popular joke with all kinds of baddies; witches, demons, imps – and you boys are perfect targets. It’s especially fun to play on hunters, because they’re always strapped with weapons, and so paranoid that they tend to panic when they run into ‘themselves’ walking around. Usually end up killing each other within the first five minutes.”

 _No kidding?_

 

“Yeah,” Sam admitted, “We had sort of a narrow miss this morning.” 

“Well, thank your lucky stars you talked your way through it. Most people shoot first, ask questions later; figuring it’s gotta be some kind of shape-shifter or apparition. Only there’s no ‘later’. Part of what the curse does to its victims is distort the connection between body and soul. Once you do in the body, the rightful spirit can’t hang around. Basically, it means if one victim’s body gets taken out, both end up dead.”

Bobby was using his You Listen Good Now tone. Without the words, Bobby’s phone voice said _this here’s serious_ , and _you boys take care_ , and, above all, _don’t do anything stupid_. He sounded tired, almost bored – and depressingly familiar. Sure, this thing had Sam shaken up and turned around backward, but if Bobby could keep his cool about this, then so could Sam. He was the analytical one, after all. Right?

“We’ll watch out for each other,” Sam said. Reassuring. The very picture of cool.

 

“That’s always a good plan for you two,” came Bobby’s reply, “but you’re not out of the woods yet. Remember what I said about the distorted soul connection?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Well, it’s progressive. As time goes by that connection gets weaker, and more twisted, until the spirit just wanders off, confused – and crosses over. The victims are dead in twenty-four hours.”

Sam wasn’t cool with this. Not cool at all.

“So even if we keep out of danger, we’ll just… _expire_ sometime in the middle of the night?”

“ _If_ the curse runs its course,” Bobby soothed. “But don’t worry. This spell’s power is front-end loaded. It’s fast-acting but just as fast to break if you know how. I’m not sayin’ that’s what it is, like I said, there could be plenty of supernatural causes for transmutation. It’s just the worst-case scenario. But to be on the safe side, the first thing you should do is the counter-ritual. To break it you’re supposed to consume the heart of the one inhabiting your body. If it _is_ the phlebotinum curse, it’ll be fully broken. You’ll be switched back and the natural connection will be restored.”

 

Oh. Just that simple, then.

“Uhhhm, Bobby…” His pitch cracked a little on his hysteria, and it was disconcerting to hear it in Dean’s timbre, so much better suited to the cocky drawl Sam was used to.

“Relax,” Bobby’s soothing tone was wearing thinner. “I said it’s a ritual. Symbolic.”

“Oh. But, oh, what if it’s not the phlebotinum thing!? We can’t stay like this, Bobby.”

“Dammit Dean, would you let me finish?”

“It’s Sam.”

There was a muffled grunt of frustration. “Does it matter?”

“I…” and Bobby had the next words out before Sam could go on, because: Really? No. …Wow.

“Now, do you want to hear how to break this thing or not?”

 

**

 

Just getting dressed to go out and pick up supplies was a trial by ordeal.

 

When Sam finished his turn in the shower (absolutely without sizing up his new physique in the mirror, or counting freckles and losing track three times before giving up), Dean was standing in the middle of the room, cursing the air blue and fighting a losing battle with his leather jacket. It didn’t stop him from periodically pushing tangled bangs off his face to bark wardrobe directions for Sam, though. (Who knew they still made button-fly jeans? And leave it to Dean to find the only store that carried them.)

 

Twenty minutes, two rounds with the jacket, and no less than four arguments about whether it was worse to wear another man’s skivvies or to go commando in your brother’s jungle later, and Sam was half-dressed. He was elbow-deep in Dean’s duffel, digging for a wearable t-shirt, when Dean obliged with the proverbial last straw.

“Not that one, the black one. Black’s more badass. My body’s gonna need all the help it can get, with you geeking it up everywhere we go.”

“The black one is dirty,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. “You wore it day before yesterday. There’s mustard. Right there.”

“Turn it inside out.” Dean tried a shrug, but the jacket had him in a full nelson.

“No way, Dean. I’m not wearing dirty clothes, it’s bad enough I have to wear YOU.”

“Hey I’m the one getting the raw deal, you get to be the handsome one.”

“I’m wearing this.” Sam ignored him, trying in vain to shake the wrinkles out of a tee that was well past its best before date, and should have graduated to gun-rag status months ago. “White brings out the brightness of your eyes, Vanity Smurf.”

“Really?” Dean paused in his struggle against a leather-and-bangs headlock.

“No.”

“Bitch.”

“Jer– DEAN. CAN WE JUST GO GET THE DAMN CANDY BEFORE WE _DIE_ AND BOBBY BURIES US IN THE _WRONG FRIGGIN’ GRAVES_!?”

 

“Your arms are ten freaky feet long,” was Dean’s sulky idea of a response. He collapsed, defeated and panting, on Sam’s bed. “And your shoulders _suck_.”

 

**

 

“How much longer?” Dean called from the bathroom. Sam didn’t even want to know what he was doing, but he’d been in there ever since they’d gotten back and had to ask the motel desk clerk for an upgrade to a room with a kitchenette.

 

“Same as last time you asked.”

 

It turned out the grocery store down the street didn’t carry Bobby’s symbolic curse-breaking prescription: candy hearts. So Sam was improvising. He didn’t look up from his clean-up until Dean’s emergence from the bathroom was announced by the increasingly familiar _smack-curse-thump_ of Dean hitting his head on the lintel, then taking a retaliatory swing at the door-frame.

 

“Midgets built this bathroom, I swear to God.”

 

Sam stared at his brother/himself for a good three seconds before he turned back to the sink to hide his grin. Dean had his hair combed – no, _slicked_ – back over the crown of his head with enough gel to drown the entire cast of an off-Broadway production of _Grease_.

“That’s a new look for me.” Sam managed, not bothering to stifle his snort.

“It’s drivin’ me crazy!” Dean yelped defensively, “Can’t see a damn thing with all that emo in my face. If this doesn’t work, we’re getting you a haircut, Sam.”

“Uh huh.” Sam reached out to administer a swift dish-soapy slap as a large hand made an un-stealthy grab for one of his freshly baked cookies. “Hot.”

“We’re supposed to eat them!” Dean complained as he withdrew, rubbing the back of his hand on his hip to take off the soap and the sting.

“They have to be heart-shaped for the ritual to work, Dean.” Sam reminded him, sharply. “You pick those up now, and they’ll be…paw-shaped.”

 

Dean scowled, but Sam just huffed. He’ be damned if he was going to give in to his own puppy-eyes.

“Here, take this one near the end, it’s kinda squashed anyhow.” Aw, crap.

 

“Oo sssure iss’ll work?” Dean asked, mid-cookie. His hair was already starting to fall down around his face in crispy arcs, a la 21 Jump Street.

“Only if this curse really is our problem. But yeah, as long as the shape is right and we declare ownership, any kind of food should cover the requirements for Bobby’s ritual.”

“Is that outfit a requirement?”

“An apron isn’t an outfit, Dean.”

“Whatever you want to call it, its wussy.” Dean jabbed the last half of his cookie at Sam accusingly. “And making me wear it is a betrayal as a brother.”

“You’re not wearing it. I am. And maybe if you kept a clean change of clothes around, I wouldn’t have to.”

Dean only shrugged in response. His mouth was full, anyway.

 

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and grab those M&Ms?”

“I’m liking this ritual more and more,” Dean enthused, tearing at the bag with gusto and scattering several of the brightly coloured sweets over the table top.

“They’re not for eating,” said Sam, even as Dean swept the fallen candy into his palm and tipped several into his mouth. Sam wrinkled his nose in distaste, wondering when the motel table had last been scrubbed.  
“More food we can’t eat?”

“They’re for decorating. I told you there has to be clear ownership of whatever we use for the ritual. All these cookies came from the same tube of dough, which I paid for.”

“With money I gave you.”

“Yes. Fine. Money _you_ gave me that technically belongs to a ‘Mr. B. Wayne’. The point is, one has to be yours and one has to be mine. So just…use some of the M &Ms to spell your initials on one of the cookies before they get too hard.”

 

By the time Sam had finished cleaning up, and squishing ‘S.W.’ into the cookie of his choice in coloured chocolate, Dean had gotten as far as ‘DV’. He was writing in only green, picking painstakingly through the entire bag of candy. Sam suspected it was just an excuse to eat all the other colours as he went, but he had to admit the effect was sort of pretty. Even Dean looked reluctant to tear his gaze off his masterpiece, when he finished.

“Okay. So now what do we do with these cookies we can’t touch, and candies we can’t eat?”

“Well, first we make a declaration; saying that the offering belongs to us and represents the heart, and naming the person receiving the offering. Then we exchange and consume the offering.”

“Consuming I get. But being all wordy-nerdy is more your thing. Go on, Shakespeare, show me how it’s done.”

Sam sighed. For a guy who liked to call everyone else a wuss, Dean sure liked to take a back seat on the more – awkward – parts of their job.

 

“Okay, so…I, Sam Winchester, declare this cookie as a representation of the heart of my own flesh…and I present it to my brother…Dean Winchester.” He shrugged, and slid the confection across the table toward Dean, who abruptly stood up, and began shifting his weight nervously from side to side.

 

“Hi. I’m Dean. This is my cookie.” Leave it to Dean to turn an occult ritual into an AA meeting. “It, um, represents my heart. And I, uh. Give it to you.” He thrust the cookie at Sam without looking at him. “Sammy.” He added, as if in afterthought.  

 

Then their gazes locked, and Sam could hear his brother’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. Dean’s heartbeat was different from his own, quicker and lacking that slight arrhythmia Sam had once been joyfully thankful for, because it meant he got to stay in one town for nearly a whole summer so they could be close to the cardiac specialist that cost Dad a fortune before he confirmed that it was nothing to worry about. Dean’s heart didn’t falter, it beat strong and purposeful, like clockwork; ticking down resolutely as if toward some sworn purpose.

 

Even at a moment like this one.

This was it. What would happen if it worked, would it be painful? And what if it didn’t work at all?

 

Sam forced a muzzle over his swirling thoughts and took a bite, watching as Dean followed suit. It was a few seconds before he even tasted the cookie in his hand; sweet in the powdery, unsatisfying way of baking that doesn’t come from scratch, but still warm and dosed with melting candy-chocolate.

 

He didn’t realize he’d shut his eyes until he was opening them – just in time to see a pair of moss-green eyes across from him do the same. But the lashes were soft brown and down-swept, not long and gold-tipped like they ought to be.

 

“Nothing happened,” Dean pointed out, unnecessarily.

“Eat the whole thing, just to be sure,” Sam said, also unnecessarily. Dean was licking his fingers avidly, and wiping them off on Sam’s jeans.

“On the bright side, this has to be the _tastiest_ ritual Bobby’s ever dug up. Magical cookies! Too bad there’s no ritual involving magic brownies.”

“The bright side is that it wasn’t the Phlebotinum curse. We aren’t going to die,” Sam said, as the last of his hope disappeared along with the last of his cookie. “…Today.”

“Hallelujia! I’d say that calls for some _real_ breakfast,” Dean crowed, grabbing another cookie along with the car keys.

 

It would have been funny when Dean tripped over his own feet in the parking lot, and then forgot to duck his head when climbing into the Impala, if Sam wasn’t just so damn disappointed. He sighed, and reminded himself they could always call Bobby again in the hope that he had any other ideas for a cure.

 

After breakfast. Cookie notwithstanding, Sam was pretty sure he’d never been this hungry in his life.

 

**

 

The plastic-covered menu was big and unwieldy between Sam’s hands. Normally, he felt no need to read them, knowing what he’d see before he looked:

3-egg breakfast, any style;

grilled cheese with Our Signature Fries ™;

waffles/pancakes/French toast;

add bacon/sausage/ham/extra cheese - $1.25; and as always,

pie (ask your server for today’s selection).

 

Today, though, he couldn’t concentrate. Understandable, thought Sam, given the circumstances – but that didn’t make it any easier. Everything seemed distracting. The light in the diner was too bright, for starters, and the “decorator” needed to be publicly flogged for combining blinding white Formica with tangerine and lime-green seat covers. The waitress. She kept _looking_ at him. At Dean, he reminded himself, not a little bitterly. He tried to keep his gaze on the menu, instead of constantly flicking in her direction, but that wasn’t much good either. There were pictures of the food all over it. Everything looked good and he couldn’t decide.

 

It didn’t help that Dean kept talking. Asking him things.

“So, since we didn’t switch back I gotta ask. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Sasuage or bacon? Maybe both?

“The green M&Ms. I hear they’re supposed to make you horny.”

 “Dean.” Sam slid down a little in his seat to glare at his brother. “I’ve been in your body for less than 24 hours, and I can already tell you – you do NOT need any encouragement in that department.”

Dean’s grin was entirely too pleased.

“Attaboy Sammy,” he laughed. “I saw you scoping the waitress.”

“The waitress, the motel clerk, the girl at the grocery checkout. God, Dean, are you always this hyper-aware of…of everything?”

Surprisingly, Dean didn’t shrug or joke the question away. Sam watched in fascination as the quirked eyebrow and lop-sided grin that, even on Sam’s face, were so clearly _Dean_ , melted into introspection.

“Huh,” Dean said after a pause, “I guess I don’t know. I’ve never been any other way.”

 

Sam gave up on the menu and ordered his usual: coffee and a short stack. With strawberry syrup this time, because they didn’t have real maple.

 

“Anything else I can get you?” Trilled Stacey, their waitress, as she leaned in close to top up Sam’s still-nearly-full coffee cup.

“Yeah. Um…” Sam felt the slow heat of Dean’s pale complexion giving him away again. “I’m gonna have – the same thing. Again.”

“More pancakes?”

“Yep. Please.” When he looked up again, Stacey had recovered from her surprise and was giving him a warm grin.

“Gotta love a man with an appetite.”

Dean was looking perplexed, but pasted on his gold-standard smile for her when she turned his way. “What about you, sweetie?”

“I’m good here, thanks.”

 

Dean had ordered his usual, too; the biggest breakfast on the menu with every kind of meat he could get as a side. He was frowning again as Stacey poked Sam in the bicep with her pen before sashaying away from their table to place his order.

“I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“I can’t eat this,” Dean said, like it was a math problem that didn’t add up.  “I just…can’t do it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t?” Sam laughed for the first time all day, “You ate three huge cookies and half a bag of candy.” Laughing didn’t sound like him, or like Dean, it was a strange but oddly pleasant mixture.

“Those are snacks, not food!” Dean shook his head in frustration, growling when the gesture caused tufts of hair to fall in front of his eyes. “You eat it.”

To Sam’s mild surprise, he did. There was no point wasting food.

 

He was just starting to feel comfortably full when his pancakes came, with real strawberries this time, and a smile from Stacey that Dean didn’t return. She stood there, watching Sam expectantly. He felt a warmth down low that had nothing to do with the hot coffee, as he obligingly took a couple of bites. And immediately started to choke.

 

Sam couldn’t breathe. His vision was starting to blur. He could hear Dean calling his name, and Stacey screeching about dialing 911. The last thing he saw was his own retreating back as Dean bolted from the diner, leaving him to succumb to the welcoming dark.

**

 

“That was so weird, waking up on the floor and seeing my own face hovering over me like that,” Sam said, easing himself down on the hard motel bed. “I thought it was some kind of out-of-body experience, before I remembered the switch.”

“Yeah.” Dean still seemed a little shaken up. “For a second there, I thought we did the cookie thing wrong, and that damn curse was kicking in. Then I saw what you were eating.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t even know you’re allergic to strawberries.”

“The things you learn about a guy, huh?”  
“Yeah. Well…” Sam made to start the process of unlacing Dean’s boots, and discovered his reach wasn’t going to cut it. He kicked an ankle up on the bed, the way Dean always did. “If you’ve been holding out on me with any other potentially fatal medical conditions, now might be a good time to spill it.”

Dean shrugged.

“It just never came up.”

“Probably because you never eat fruit unless it’s hidden in chocolate.”

“What can I say, I’m just not a fruity guy.”

“This from the man who ate all the strawberries off my pancakes while I was unconscious.”

“Might as well live it up while I can, little brother.” Dean said, lovingly setting a takeout container on the kitchen table, “Gotta love free pie! An entire, free pie. Man, I have this puppy-dog thing WIRED,” Dean congratulated himself. “I’d offer you some, but – you know – strawberry.”

“Yeah, well I think you were laying it on a little thick – scuffing your toe on the floor like Eddie Haskell. And what was that line?” Sam put on his best boy-scout voice, “ _I always carry his epi-pen, sir. I’m my brother’s keeper_. The manager was probably just happy he wasn’t getting sued.”

“You’re just jealous that I can totally use your body better than you can.”

“What? That’s…”  
“In fact, pass me my duffel bag. No, not yours, mine.”

 

“What are you doing?” Sam handed the bag over, then gratefully stretched out. The bed seemed bigger than usual.  
“Changing my t-shirt.” Suddenly Dean cared about fresh laundry?

“These clothes don’t fit you, Dean. They’ll be way too tight.”

“Bingo.” Dean tapped himself on the nose. “And knock that off.”

Sam groaned. His head hurt, and he felt queasy coming down from the epi-pen’s adrenaline.

“What, lying here, trying to recover from anaphylactic shock?”  
“That frowny-thing you keep doing to my forehead. You’re giving me wrinkles.”

 

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. If Dean wanted to dress him up like a twink, he’d worry about it when he tried to leave the motel room.

“Just don’t eat that whole pie in one go.”

 

When Sam woke up from his nap, it was obvious Dean hadn’t followed that particular piece of advice. He split the remainder of the day between trips to the bathroom and lying on top of the covers, groaning.

 

“You sure you’re not allergic to strawberry too?” Dean croaked. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

“You ate about 2 pounds of fruit, Dean. Most people have this kind of ‘allergic’ reaction to binge eating.” Sam’s stomach growled in loud disagreement. “Except you, apparently. How can your body need more food after everything I ate this morning?”

“Ugh. Stop talking about food.”

“So…” Sam folded his arms across his chest and tried to rein in his grin. “You don’t want anything from the vending machine, then?”

Dean only shot him a death glare from under his bangs in response.

“Just put the epi-pen back if you’re going to the parking lot. There’s a black case in the glove box.”

 

Sam got back to the room with a pack of Fritos, two Snickers, and a soda for Dean. He figured he must be getting close to dehydration by now.

Dean seemed fine, though, when Sam opened the door. No longer lying prone on his back, he was sitting with his long legs crossed Indian-style in the middle of his bed, flipping channels on the TV. But something wasn’t right.

 

“Is that – ” Sam pointed as well as he could with a fistful of junk food. “Is that _Bobby’s_!?” He exclaimed, incredulous. There was a navy and white mesh trucker hat jammed down on top of his head.

“Probably. I found it in the back seat.”

“And now it’s on your head,” Sam pointed out, helpfully. He tried not to think about what else Dean might have found tossed in the back seat.

“It keeps your girly hair out of my face, Rapunzel.”

“It also makes you look like an Ashton Kutcher groupie, but whatever floats your boat.”

Dean flipped Sam off, and then held out his hand for the can of soda.

 

“This was the only case I could find in the glove box,” Sam continued, holding up a pair of glasses.

“Yeah.” Dean said, taking a pull off the soda and belching impressively. “Just slide the pen in there, it’ll fit.” He kept his eyes on the TV screen.

 

“Um. Dean?” Sam prompted, “Whose are these?”

“Those are Bobby’s too. You caught us. When you’re not around we have secret research parties and don’t invite you.”

Sam was already pulling the frameless specs out and trying them on.

“Dean, are these yours?”  
“Some of the print on those maps is really small,” Dean defended. “But I don’t need to read maps any more, now that I have my trusty sidekick.” He threw Sam a smirk over his shoulder. “Screech to my Zack Morris.”

 

Sam smiled a little. He was too busy turning his head back and forth, testing out the effect of the glasses, to banter back.

“These really are yours.”

“Duh, Sam.”

“Well. You never wear them.”

“Don’t need to,” Dean said curtly.

“Really? Then why do you have them?” Sam knew he was being a brat, but he couldn’t help it. If Dean needed glasses, he should wear them, instead of making things worse. “The things you learn about a guy, huh?”

 

Dean just sighed and climbed stiffly off the bed to make his way toward the bathroom again.

 

**

 

Sam didn’t know how Dean did it. He’d been at the library for four hours and his eyes were burning, even with the glasses. He was lucky to have them, Dean had given him such a hard time on his way out the door.

 

“Take those off if you’re going out, I told you I don’t need ‘em.”

“I’m going to the library. You said they’re for reading.”

“You’re not reading anything right now. Take them off.”

“Indiana Jones wears glasses,” Sam pointed out after a pause, but it didn’t faze Dean.

“Yeah, but so do Ugly Betty and Larry King.”

 

He’d also insisted that, if Sam was going to walk around looking like a nerd, he wear the leather jacket. It wasn’t that cold out, but Sam gave in. He’d always secretly wished he could fit into Dad’s old jacket. It was pretty much as warm and comforting as he’d imagined when he got it on. What he hadn’t been expecting was the scent. Not Dad, Dean. Gasoline and aftershave, gun powder and something that smelled like – and probably was – barbecue sauce. Not Dad. But close.

 

Sam rubbed his eyes behind the lenses, and gave it up as a bad job. He hoped Dean had better luck checking around town for any reports of paired deaths, unprovoked murders, or strange behaviour; anything that might indicate other body exchanges happening in the area.

 

When he got back to the motel, the room was empty except for a hastily scribbled message on the back of a gas station receipt. If he wanted to compare notes with Dean tonight, he’d have to find him at the local pool hall.

 

Sam walked into the bar, and Dean was no where to be seen. He scanned the pool tables, and the dart boards. There was a particularly rowdy game of poker going on in the corner, but no Dean. Several of the players were wearing cowboy hats, one of them pink and fuzzy.

“The alpha-yahoo,” Sam snorted to himself. Easily the biggest guy at the table, he had two girls in his lap and kept yipping loudly, like a bad spaghetti western. By this time, Sam was pretty sure he needed something stronger than a beer, so he made his way to the bar.

 

Sam had barely settled himself on the stool, when the heavyset bar-tender gave him a terse “What ya drinkin’?”

“Whiskey,” Sam said wearily, “JD, I guess.”

“Just killed the bottle.” He nodded down the bar at a balding business man staring intently into his glass. “I got Wild Turkey?”

Bourbon was usually a bit too sweet for Sam’s liking but the guy looked tired, and Sam could definitely relate to that.

“Whatever you have is fine,” he smiled, and had a feeling he’d over-done it. His cheeks felt funny – bunched up and chubby, instead of dimpling and folding like they were supposed to. The bar-tender blinked.

“Ah, you know what? If you can wait a sec, I can go look in the back for ya. I think I got a new case of Jack in, I’ll just go crack it open real quick.” He flashed a scruffy return-grin before disappearing through a swinging door. Whoa. At least one mystery was solved: why Dean smiles at strangers so much.

 

While Sam waited, there was an eardrum-shattering “YEEHAAAAW” from the corner as the poker game started breaking up. The winner, not surprisingly, was the pink fuzzy hat. The brunette on his left knee was chugging straight from a bottle of Cuervo, while the blonde on his right pulled him forcefully into a sloppy, celebratory kiss. She leaned back unsteadily and stole the hat – which was probably hers in the first place, Sam realized disinterestedly – and Sweet. Merciful. Crap. _He_ was the pink fuzzy alpha-yahoo. Or rather, Dean had made him a pink fuzzy alpha-yahoo, and he had _cut Sam’s hair._ Oh, it was so on.

 

It was early, nearly 4 am, when Dean buffaloed his way through the door to their room. Maybe he knew Sam was still awake, but either way, he didn’t bother trying to keep it down.

 

“Good news, Sam!” Dean announced, officiously.

Sam wearily sat up, wondering if Dean had actually found something out that day, before taking off to make merry with the local yokels.

“Yup," Dean slurred, “you finally got laid. Too bad you couldn’t be there.” He fell on his bed, laughing riotously at his own joke. “You’ll be pleased to know everything is in _excellent_ working condition…” Dean sat up, and his diatribe was mercifully cut short as he swayed dramatically on the edge of the bed. “Except maybe your tolerance, you lightweight. Oooh. Bathroom.”

 

And that’s how Sam spent the second night in a row watching infomercials just to drown out the sounds coming from the bathroom. He couldn’t help but find it ironic that even though he was the one with the fatal allergy, this whole thing could quite possibly be the death of Dean.

 

**

 

Dean had refused to get up that morning; clutching a pillow over his short new haircut and moaning something about turning off the sun. Fine. Sam could use some time to run a few “errands.”

 

It took a couple hours to accomplish everything he wanted to do, but the girls at the Walgreens makeup counter were exceedingly helpful. Maybe too helpful, Sam thought, when he opened the door to their room, his features carefully schooled to deadpan.

 

“Surprise, freak.” Dean was waiting, finger on the trigger of his silver Colt.

Sam put both hands in the air, but he couldn’t help the laughter.

 

“What the hell, Sam!?” Dean goggled, as he recognized his brother and let his gun hand fall, clearly trying to take it all in and not knowing what to scream about first. “Wh…why am I wearing eye-liner? And a _skirt_!?”

“It’s a kilt, thank you for noticing.” Sam threw out his chest. “You got me a haircut, I was just returning the favour.”

“This,” Dean pointed frantically at himself, “is an improvement. I didn’t give you a Mohawk!”  
“Faux-hawk,” Sam corrected, and pouted theatrically. “You don’t like the blue? I knew I should have gone with hot pink.”

Dean brandished the .45 still in his right hand.

“You just better get your punk ass in the shower and hope it all washes off.”

Sam was shaking too hard with suppressed laughter to explain that it would. “Then pack. We’re leaving town.”

  
“Wait, what?” Sam struggled for a grip.

“It’s been three days. There’s nothing going on around here, and we can’t let whatever did this to us throw us off our game,” Dean said, stowing the Colt. “Gotta stay on the road.”

“Yeah. Okay.” That made sense. Sort of. Bobby did say there could be a ton of reasons for what had happened, and the investigation had definitely hit a dead end.

“Seriously, Sam. Shower. Now.”

 

**

They hadn’t been on the road five minutes, when Dean started up complaining about Sam’s wookie arms, and having to move the seat back.

 

“Setup’s all screwed to hell,” He went on. “She doesn’t like you, I can feel it. You take over, my baby needs _my_ hands on the wheel.”

“Those ARE your hands,” Sam argued, staring down at his own. His fingernails were still painted black. “Until we figure out how to fix this.”

 _If we figure out how to fix this_ , he didn’t say.

 

“She doesn’t know that, Sam,” Dean snapped, as he pulled roughly onto the shoulder. “She’s a CAR. Jeez!”

Right. Because that made all kinds of sense.

 

As rarely as Sam actually got to drive the Impala, he had to admit it didn’t feel right this time either. At first he figured it must have been a product of the switch; both of them feeling so uncomfortable. Driving with short legs did feel pretty weird. But a few miles further down the road, they were both convinced that neither of them was imagining the stuttering of the labouring engine. Perfect.

 

“Ow! Dammit.” Dean put his hand to his mouth and sucked, obviously not caring that his fingers were black with engine grease.  

“Did you burn yourself? I said you weren’t giving the motor enough time to cool off.”

“No!” Dean bit out. “It was completely cool, I was holding the cap right in my hand, and then it just suddenly seared hot. It almost felt like…”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted. “Are those _bite marks_?”

Dean’s eyes widened in shock and anger as he stared at the marks on his hand. Marks that looked pretty much identical to the ones Sam had gotten the week before.

“My _car_?" Dean growled. “Oh, you’ve done it now you ugly little bastard.”

 

Dean insisted on dealing with the gremlin himself.

“This time, it’s personal.”

“That’s _Jaws_ , not _Gremlins_.”

If looks could kill, Dean would be burying his own body twice. 

 

Sam dialed Bobby’s number, watching as Dean climbed under the car and wrestled the scaly animal out of the engine, keeping up a constant stream of cursing all the while.

 

“No, they can’t recover from decapitation,” Bobby said, in his all-too-familiar I’m Surrounded by Idjits tone. Sam could almost _hear_ the implied _Are you on some kind of drugs, boy_? “It seems like an awful big coincidence, but this has to be a second one. Come to think of it, this little bugger could be your problem. But it’s strange, gremlin magic is usually based on emotion – hate or anger – they have to focus constantly on keeping the spell going, or it just craps out.”

 

There was a sharp yell from Dean as the gremlin sank its teeth into his wrist, but he managed to keep a hold on it as it writhed on the ground, screeching and flailing viciously.

“You…” The thing wheezed. “You kill…brother.” Then it let out a howl of rage and aimed another bite at Dean.

 

“It – it talked.” Sam said, disbelieving. “It just said – we killed its brother.”

“That’d do it,” Bobby sighed. “Revenge. It was probably hoping you’d off each other like I said the other day.”

“Poetic.” Sam quipped, trying not to feel that it actually was.

“Unintentionally, I promise you. If you finish this one, the spell should die with it. And let’s hope he’s the last one.”

“Same way we did it last time?”

“Anything that would kill a human should work – only don’t try to drown it. Keep it away from water altogether.”

“Like the movies,” Sam said, watching Dean try to hold the creature still with one foot.

“Except they don’t multiply,” Bobby said. “They grow. Fast. You’ve heard the fairy tales about trolls under bridges? Near water? Trust me, the last thing you want is an 8 foot gremlin on your ass.”

 

Before Sam could pass this on, the sudden crack of gunfire made him jump. He saw Dean covered in a dark, sticky ichor and then for the second time in a week, Sam felt himself helplessly battling the dizzy fall into unconsciousness, as his vision slowly and irresistibly blacked out.

 

**

“I needed that,” Sam sighed, rubbing his shower-damp hair with a rough motel towel. “Thanks for getting a hangover and then splattering me in Gremlin Guts, by the way.”

“Finally,” came Dean’s non-reply. “My turn.”

“You just had a shower this morning. Remember the Manic Panic?”

“Dude, I had _you_ behind the wheel of my body for three days. All I know is I feel dirty.” Dean continued to get undressed, then paused with one sock in his hand. “Putting the _man_ in ‘manicure’ wasn’t enough for you, you had to get me a pedi too?”

“It was a package price.” Sam grinned. “That, and your feet were disgusting.”

“That’s true,” Dean said proudly. “They look pretty sexy now. I bet chicks will dig it. Heyyyy, this could open up a whole new world of foot fetish options.”

“Gross.” Sam pulled a face. “Now _I_ feel dirty.”

 

Over the running water, Sam heard a string of curses rising to a yell, before Dean’s voice came through the bathroom door at him, full bore.

“Sam!”

Dean had found the tattoo.

 

“I thought you liked Strawberry Shortcake, Dean.” Sam managed to choke out, as Dean stood dripping wet on the motel carpet. Dean. Clutching a cheap, undersized towel around his own waist and pointing his own, furious finger at Sam.

“You won’t be laughing when I get you back for this, bitch!”

 

But he was laughing now.

As he tried to catch his breath, Sam ran a hand absently through his hair; at least this time he hadn’t ended up bald. It was ass-backward, but the straight little tufts were the one part of him that didn’t feel alien and too-big. It would grow back anyway – and henna washes off in 3-4 days. But Dean didn’t need to know that just yet.

 

 

 

_____________________

Persnickett, July 2008

 

 

 


End file.
